VOWS OF FIRE AND BLOOD

The private club reeked of power and money. Gilded chandeliers glowed above velvet booths, where men in tailored suits whispered about deals that could topple governments. My father's hand was iron around my wrist as he pulled me deeper inside, past guards who didn't bother pretending not to stare.

I already knew who waited for me.

Dante Moretti.

The man they called Il Lupo : The Wolf.

He was leaning casually against the bar when I saw him, a dark suit cut to perfection around a body that radiated effortless command. A glass of whiskey dangled from one hand.

My father nudged me forward. "Isabella. Meet your fiancé."

I froze. My pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out the murmur of conversations, the clinking of crystal.

Dante's gaze lifted, and the world tilted. Gray eyes, sharp as a blade, locked on mine. He didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just let his eyes drag down the length of me in a slow, searing appraisal that set my skin aflame and my stomach in knots.

"Princess Romano," he drawled at last, his voice deep velvet laced with steel. "You kept me waiting."

My chin snapped up. "I wasn't aware I owed you my time."

A flicker of amusement touched his mouth. Dangerous, lethal amusement. He set his glass down, straightened, and closed the distance between us with a predator's ease. His scent, expensive cologne, smoke, and something darker wrapped around me.

"Everything you are," he said softly, so only I could hear, "already belongs to me."

The words shouldn't have made my heart stumble. They shouldn't have curled heat low in my belly. But the way he said them like a vow, like a promise carved into stone stole my breath.

I forced my glare to steady. "You don't own me, Moretti."

His smile widened, all wolf, no warmth. "Not yet."

Dante gestured smoothly to a secluded booth tucked into the shadows. His men, sharp-eyed and silent, stood at discreet distance as if the outcome of this meeting was already written.

I slid into the booth stiffly, folding my arms across my chest. Dante sat opposite, his movements unhurried, every line of him radiating control.

A server appeared instantly with another whiskey for him, a glass of wine for me. I hadn't ordered it.

"You'll like it," Dante murmured, watching as I eyed the drink. "French, older than you. Sweet, with a sharp bite at the end. Much like its new owner."

"I didn't agree to anything," I said, my voice clipped.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, the lamplight catching in his eyes like cold fire. "Your father signed. The oath is sealed. In three days, Isabella, you will stand beside me as my wife."

The word wife struck like a lash. I tried to mask the jolt it sent through me with disdain. "You think you can buy loyalty with a ring?"

"No." His gaze dropped, lingering deliberately on my mouth, then lower. "I'll take it."

Heat surged through me, rage, fury, and something else I refused to name. I shifted back against the velvet seat, but his eyes held me pinned in place more effectively than chains.

"You mistake fear for desire," I snapped.

Dante's smile was slow, dangerous. "Do I?"

He reached across the table, fingers brushing the inside of my wrist before I could pull away. His touch was fire against my skin, light, claiming, and impossible to ignore. I hated the way my pulse leapt beneath his thumb.

"You're trembling," he said softly.

I yanked my hand back. "With disgust."

He chuckled, low and intimate, like we were already lovers sharing a private joke. "Keep lying, princess. I'll enjoy watching you unravel."

I opened my mouth to retort, but he silenced me with a glance that made my throat dry. Dante Moretti didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. His power was in the quiet certainty that no one ever told him no.

And God help me, some traitorous part of me wanted to test how far I could push him.

Dante rose smoothly from the booth, finishing his whiskey in a single swallow. He extended a hand toward me, palm up, commanding rather than offering.

"Dance with me."

"I don't dance," I shot back instantly.

His eyebrow arched. "Then tonight, you'll learn."

I didn't move. Around us, the hum of the club carried on, but I could feel eyes turning, attention shifting toward the spectacle Dante Moretti was orchestrating. Refusing him here, in his kingdom, would be a declaration of war. And I'd been raised to know how those ended.

Grinding my teeth, I placed my hand in his. His grip closed over mine, strong and possessive, sending a pulse through me I despised myself for feeling.

He led me to the center of the floor where space opened like the sea before a king. Music swelled, low, sultry, violins woven with a beat that made my heart race.

His arm slid around my waist, drawing me flush against him. The contact stole my breath. Heat radiated from his body, his chest a solid wall beneath my palm. He held me as if we had been molded for this moment, as if resistance was laughable.

"Relax," he murmured, guiding me into the rhythm with effortless control. "You're safe in my arms."

"Safe?" I scoffed, glaring up at him. "You're the last man on earth I'd trust."

"Not trust," he corrected smoothly, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "Surrender."

The word lodged in my throat, heavy, dangerous. I hated him for the way my body responded before my mind could catch up. Each step pressed us closer, each turn wound me tighter around him.

I tried to create space, but Dante only drew me nearer, his hand at the small of my back inching lower, firm and deliberate. I gasped softly, and his mouth curved in a wolf's smile.

"You feel it too," he whispered, his breath warm against my temple. "The fire."

My pulse thundered. "What I feel is disgust."

"Disgust doesn't make you tremble like this." His voice dropped, intimate and lethal. "You'll burn for me, Isabella. And when you do, you'll beg me not to stop."

The music swelled, spinning us through the center of the floor. Applause broke out around us, though I barely heard it. All I could register was the steel of his arm, the searing heat of his body, and the terrifying truth that he might be right.

When the song ended, Dante didn't release me immediately. He kept me close, his thumb brushing deliberately along the edge of my lower back, a touch meant only for me. His lips hovered so close I thought he'd kiss me.

Instead, he whispered, "Three days, wife. Prepare yourself."

Then he let me go, leaving me breathless, furious, and shaken to my very core.

The moment Dante released me, I bolted from the dance floor, my pulse still erratic. Applause faded into a dull roar as I slipped past the crowd, desperate for air, for distance, for anything that wasn't him.

But wolves never let their prey run far.

A strong hand caught my arm, pulling me into the shadows of a marble column near the edge of the room. My back hit the cold stone, and Dante's body caged mine instantly, his presence overwhelming, blocking out everything but him.

"Running already?" His voice was low, dangerous, threaded with amusement. "We haven't even started."

I pushed at his chest, but it was like trying to move a wall of steel. He didn't budge. His hand braced against the column beside my head, the other capturing my wrist and pressing it to the stone above me. Trapped.

"Let me go," I hissed.

"Not a chance." His gaze roamed my face with infuriating slowness, lingering on my parted lips, the rapid rise and fall of my chest. "Do you know what I see when I look at you, Isabella?"

I glared up at him, defiant. "A woman who despises you."

Dante's smile was wicked, unhurried. "A woman who's already mine."

Heat flooded me, anger, shame, something perilously close to desire. My breath hitched when he leaned closer, his nose brushing mine, his lips hovering a breath away.

"Say it," he whispered. "Say you feel nothing."

I opened my mouth, but the words caught. My heart betrayed me, hammering against my ribs, and he felt it...of course he did. His smirk deepened, triumphant.

"You can lie to yourself, princess," he murmured, his lips grazing the corner of my mouth without fully claiming it. "But your body will never lie to me."

Rage surged, breaking through the haze. I shoved him hard with my free hand, enough to startle him back an inch. My voice shook, but I forced it out: "I will never belong to you."

For a heartbeat, silence crackled between us. Then Dante chuckled, dark and satisfied, as though my resistance was exactly what he wanted.

He released me, stepping back with infuriating calm. Adjusting his cufflinks, he leaned in just close enough to murmur:

"The wedding is in three days. And when you wear my ring, Isabella, you'll realize the truth, whether you fight me or not, you're already mine."

Then he was gone, striding back toward the crowd, leaving me breathless, furious, and trembling against the cold stone.

I touched my lips, hating that I could still feel the ghost of his almost kiss.

I swore I would never let him break me. But Dante Moretti was already in my blood.